


Holding On

by BornBlue



Series: Ron & Hermione's 1st time [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, but be warned it's explicit and depicts them losing their virginity, they are 18 in this story so not technically underage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 16:19:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14048124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BornBlue/pseuds/BornBlue
Summary: Ron needs to escape from the sadness of the Burrow. As Hermione takes him to the quiet of her home, they will find that they can hold onto each other and find some hope for the future.My imagining of their first time making love, in two companion pieces. This one is told from Hermione’s POV.





	Holding On

She wasn’t quite sure why he had wanted to come here. For the quiet, she supposed. The Burrow (which, despite its warmth, had never been a haven of peaceful solitude) was now exceedingly confused and chaotic, what with visiting friends and family, the sad bustle of funeral arrangements, and the eggshells over which everyone walked until grief broke open once more and brought them all to sobs and embraces. He may never have wanted peace and quiet before, but she reckoned he absolutely longed for it right about now.

 

That morning, as she had emerged from Ginny’s room dressed and ready to offer her help to Mrs. Weasley, Ron was waiting for her in the hall. He looked as if he hadn’t slept more than a few hours the night before.

 

He whispered quietly to her, “I need to get out of here. Hermione, would you take me to your house?”

 

It had taken her by surprise. She wasn’t ready to face her home. He knew what it had cost her to send her parents away, to obliterate their memories of her childhood, her very existence. He knew how much she missed them, how fearful she had been that she would never see them again. As she opened her mouth to say all this, she was struck by the look in his eyes. It looked as if they were her own: his expression said everything she had felt. But her fears had been just that: fears. Ron may have never truly feared it for his family, but for him it was now horribly real. She had swallowed the acid words that sat like bile in her mouth and considered his sad, tired eyes.

 

“If you’d really like to see it, sure.”

 

He had held onto her arm and they’d Apparated on the spot.

 

Now, a moment later, they were standing in the kitchen of Hermione’s childhood home. She had imagined this moment as an emotional homecoming, but found herself strangely unaffected. Here they were in the kitchen in which she’d eaten nearly every meal for her first eleven years. There were memories, yes—of pancake breakfasts, baking a birthday cake for her mother, after-school snacks (usually low in sugar, to help protect her “beautiful teeth,” as her father called them—“her _big_ teeth,” she had always thought to herself in reply). But standing here now she didn’t feel sad, or even nostalgic; she knew now that her family would soon be restored. And while she might never live here again, this was still her home.

 

She wandered through the small hallway into the living room and looked around at the photographs on the wall. She could feel Ron behind her. He was strangely quiet--they both were. Quiet as they’d rarely been with each other before. He was looking, too, at all the photos, and she suddenly felt flushed as he perused her childhood—those painful years before Hogwarts when she was a buck-toothed, frizzy-haired misfit. She half expected to hear him laugh as he looked at those pictures, but he just gazed in silence. She glanced sideways at him again, trying to discern his thoughts, but couldn’t. Was he puzzled or concerned? Perhaps he was just sad. Maybe from now on he would always be sad, whatever else happened, whatever he saw or said.

 

Ron broke the silence. “When did you put these back up?”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“I thought you took them down so your parents wouldn’t see them after you… you know… wiped their memories….”

 

“Right. I did, but I came back after they left for the airport. I couldn’t stand to leave it as though we’d never lived here.”

 

“Or like you’d never existed.” His words surprised her. He appeared lost in some reverie, but then said, “You were cute back then.”

 

Her reply came out more sarcastically than she’d intended (“As opposed to now, you mean?”), but the heat was climbing up her face. Hermione saw Ron take a sideways glance at her as he said simply, “No.”

 

She had no reply. Everything seemed to be catching up to her now. She was overwhelmed with emotions she couldn‘t quite name and bit her lip to hold back the tears.

 

A long silence followed, painfully awkward for her. Ron walked around the room, looking at the many photos, paintings, and objets d’arts collected on her family’s travels. Or maybe he wasn’t looking at all; Hermione couldn’t be sure. She stood with her back to him, trying not to break down in tears. She wasn’t sure what had gotten hold of her, but didn’t want to share it with Ron for fear of burdening him with it.

 

“I can make it pass,” she thought, “I can will it away and be strong for him.” She breathed in deeply to steady herself before realizing he had already wandered out of the room.

 

Looking through the arched doorway, she could see his legs and torso on the stairway. His arms were up and as she moved closer she could see that he was straightening a picture—the portrait her parents had insisted on taking for her 17th birthday. She was finally able to see his eyes again and this time knew what he was feeling: absolute adoration. It was the same look she thought she’d seen in his eyes the moment after their kiss. But a second later she wasn’t sure she read him right. Would she ever really know how he felt?

 

Ron was moving up the stairs bit by bit, looking at pictures, straightening crooked frames, wiping dust streaks with his sleeve. Hermione was barely aware of the house now; her attention was fixed on him, who in turn seemed transfixed by this journey through her past. It was strange and oddly exciting to watch her life through his eyes. It made her feel important to see Ron—the person who most fascinated her—in turn utterly fascinated by her own life, her past, her self. He was soaking it all in, and it made her feel suddenly exhilarated.

 

Now he disappeared, and she took the staircase quickly to catch up. She caught a glimpse of his elbow around the door of her bedroom and as she entered saw him scowling at the wall. It was her signed poster of Viktor Krum—a gift he had sent her after fourth year—and she felt herself crumple a little inside.

 

“Still pining for Vicky, I see.”

 

Ah, but now the familiar anger rose in her, the anger only Ron could provoke. Why did he always assume the worst? Didn’t he know her by now? She felt all the confused emotions of moments before welling up inside again, and this time wasn’t sure she could be strong enough to hold them in. But now his eyes had turned to her and she _really_ didn’t want to cry. She wasn’t quite sure why this time: was it for her sake or his? Out of pride or protection? Her throat was tight and no words would come, so she simply looked him in the eye as best she could and pointed to her bedside table. He walked over to look as she sat heavily on the bed and dropped her head in her hands. No tears came, but she was so tired. Tired of the grief, the misunderstandings, the uncertainty of the future.

 

“How long have these been here?”

 

“Years, I suppose,” she choked out. “I kept adding ones as we got older.”

 

The photos went back to their first year at Hogwarts, up through their sixth and final year there. Some included Harry and other friends, but most were just Ron, or Ron and Hermione together. The sheer volume of them, the grouping right there next to her bed, made the meaning clear.

 

_Even to Ron_ , she thought bitterly.

 

The mattress shifted as he sat next to her on the bed. He was close to her now. Through the side of her thigh and her arm she felt the heat coming off his body as he fidgeted beside her, trying to find the right thing to say or do.

 

“I’m sorry, Hermione. I didn’t mean to…”

 

Hermione pulled her face from her hands and looked at him. He wouldn’t look back at her. Ron, too, seemed to be holding back tears.

 

“Why do we always do this?” she said. “Why do we talk too much and keep missing each other?”

 

Suddenly, his hand grabbed hers. He asked urgently, barely louder than a whisper, “So you really meant it, when you kissed me?”

 

He was looking intently in her eyes with such an unfamiliar seriousness that she almost laughed out loud, or maybe she almost cried, but instead she just managed to say, “Of course, you prat. Don‘t you know by now?”

 

With that, she felt his right arm around her waist pulling her closer, as his left hand held her face like a delicate piece of china. Her arms were around his neck as hours seemed to pass. She didn’t think he had ever looked at her so long before and thought she might explode. What was that look in his eyes: was he going to kiss her or cry?  

 

And then his lips were on hers and his hand was pressing her face to his, his other arm holding her tight. She could feel his body leaning in toward hers as she turned her hips to sit closer. Her hands were cradling his neck before she was overcome by the strands of hair tickling her fingers. They moved up into his hair before she could think about it, fondling those soft ginger locks.

 

His lips were warm and pleasantly moist on hers and she found herself reaching for his mouth with her tongue. Slowly, his lips opened in response, and their tongues were searching, making contact. She felt she could envelope herself in him. Their mouths would merge together and make them one person. Hands—his large, strong hands—were around her neck, slipping around front, tracing the line of her collarbone, sliding up her back, stroking her shoulder blades.

 

Every nerve in her skin was alive, feeling his hands on her and his body so close. She was thinking how much she had wanted this and how wonderful it was when she felt tears on her cheeks. Abruptly, Ron pulled away and stood up, practically racing to the window across the room. She went to dry her eyes of tears she hadn’t even known she cried and found there weren’t any.

 

When she looked up, Ron was bent over, hands on his thighs, panting as though he had finished a long race. His face was obscured. But he wasn’t only panting; she could hear sobs, too—short, sharp, muffled cries. He was in such pain and she didn’t know how to help him. She froze with confusion.

 

He struggled to pull himself up straight and turned his head away a little, wiping his eyes quickly with the back of his hand. It seemed to be all he could do to stand up without falling over. Finally, he faced her and spoke.

 

“This isn’t right. I’m bleedin’ selfish. To have you here and forget about him.” He turned back and looked out her window, steadying himself on the sill. It seemed to hurt him even to look at her now.

 

She had to say something, so tentatively offered him the first bromide that came to mind: “Life goes on, Ron.”

 

“Not for Fred! Not for Lupin or Tonks or that little prat, Creevey! Remember him, with his stupid camera second year?” Ron was half-laughing now. Crying, too. “The git survived the basilisk, petrified for months, just to have some bloody Death Eater smack him into permanent oblivion a few years later! And Fred! One minute there, the next…. How does life go on after this? How will it ever go on?”

 

Hermione was silent. She didn’t have an answer. Everything he said was right, but she knew she was right, too. That somehow, even in the midst of loss and chaos, beauty would begin to appear. They’d see more and more as time went by. There would probably be days—perhaps many—of despair, but they would have to pass. They would always pass while Ron and Hermione were on this earth, until they themselves were dead, until they joined Fred, Lupin, Tonks, Colin, and so many others beyond the veil. But they were here— _right now_ —with bodies and futures, with beating hearts that were crying out for each other and skin that prickled with every touch. Here they were with yearnings. Hermione absolutely yearned for Ron, yearned to feel alive with him. Only he could make her feel that life would go on, and yet the idea seemed to completely offend him. Maybe he was right, too. She hadn’t lost a brother. The closest she even _had_ to a brother was Harry; she tried to remember the horror she felt when he lay limply in Hagrid’s arms and she thought he was dead.

 

“I don’t know, Ron. Really, I don’t. And I can’t look this up in the library.” She caught the glimpse of a smirk. “I just know that it will. I know people endure horrible losses and survive. And I’ve heard that in time they adjust. Bit by bit, things get back to normal.”

 

“Yeah, well, it’ll never be normal for Fred again, will it? He’s done. It’s over for him, and when we get on with it we’ll just be leaving him behind. How’s that right?”

 

Hermione sat in silence for a tense moment, watching Ron at the window and wondering what he needed from her. She wanted to give it to him, but she also felt accused. She didn’t know how to react, but then she was hit by curiosity.

 

“Why did you want me to bring you here?”

 

He looked startled, like she’d awakened him from a daydream. “It was the only place I could think of where we could be alone,” he stammered. “I just couldn’t stand being in that house any longer with all those people and all that….” He gestured vaguely with his hand then stood staring out the window again, looking more pained than ever.

 

“Did you want to be alone by yourself or alone with me?”

 

“I don’t know. I didn’t really think of it like one or the other? I guess I just wanted a little peace and quiet and some room to move without landing on top of people everywhere I turn. Some place I wouldn’t have to make small talk with anyone or pretend I wasn’t… feeling….”

 

“So my presence is just incidental?”

 

“No!” He banged his fist on the sill so loudly she gave a start. “Don’t twist it up! It had to be with you. It always has to be. I don’t know where I’d be if….” He couldn’t go on, overcome as he was with tears he tried in vain to hide.

 

Slowly, Hermione rose from the bed and paused for a moment before walking behind him, carefully putting her arms around his shoulders, and resting her head on the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, Ron. For everything. I’m just so sorry.”

 

She truly meant it. She _was_ sorry for everything--not just things she’d done or said, but everything they’d experienced. All the pain. She knew it couldn’t have been helped—they’d done what had to be done and of course no one’s death was of their choosing—but she was just sorry for all of it. Sorry for both of them, having seen horrors that no 18-year-old should know.

 

They stood there for what seemed like hours, crying together at the window. Every now and then a car would drive by in the street below and it would strike Hermione that yes, life goes on right now, already. Here in the Muggle world, no one passing by had an inkling how close they had come to a world of capricious violence and endless tyranny. No one passing by knew of the battle and the losses and the sorrow she and Ron were feeling now. These strangers were just going about the daily business of their lives as if nothing extraordinary had happened. As if the earth hadn’t just stopped turning on its axis. She could feel the change swallowing the two of them in its wake; how could these people not?

 

She felt him straightening at last, pulling his shoulders up to his regular height. He sniffled and she got him the box of tissues off her bureau. He seemed quietly grateful to wipe his eyes and nose before turning to face her again. “You’ve been wonderful, you know. I couldn’t have asked…” His voice cracked slightly and trailed off.

 

“There’s nowhere else I’d be, Ron. Maybe it isn’t good to rely on you so much. I just don’t know where else I’d be, where else I’d even _want_ to be.” He was looking at her again with that seriousness that made her want to laugh or cry or maybe run away or just scream to the heavens how much she loved him. “I know Fred’s gone and it’s not fair, and I’ll wait with you until you feel right about living your life again. I just want… just to see a future and I only see one with you. I want to feel alive after all this terrible year. Sometimes I can’t believe it’s over. It still feels like we’re living in limbo and I want to get on with it and feel my life again. I don’t know how to feel it without you, that’s all.”

 

She had moved so close to him while she was talking that she could feel something like an electrical current between their chests, their legs. She had to touch it to see if it was real. Slowly, she lifted her hand and brought her palm up to face his shoulder. Her fingers were taut, alert, as she felt the air. He looked down at her flat hand and watched in silence as she moved it slowly—almost imperceptibly—toward his chest. The whole while she could feel it; yes, she could feel the current coming off of him. It moved right into her fingers and the heel of her palm. It was coursing through her whole body as she stood there moving closer to his chest. And then she felt the texture of his shirt making contact with her fingertips. She touched him softly, feeling through the fabric the electricity coming from his skin beneath. He was still watching her hand.

 

Perhaps it was too much for him, for he suddenly pressed her hand against his chest firmly with his own. She could feel his heart pounding, insistently, strongly. It was the source of the electricity, she knew, and she almost thought she could feel the current pulling at her from deep inside him.

 

She looked up into his face and he looked back. No words were needed. His heartbeat was telling her everything she needed to know.

 

Or was the heartbeat hers? She couldn’t be sure anymore. He had moved his hand to her chest now, above her left breast, and was holding it there reverently. She could feel his fingertips through her cotton t-shirt; they were trembling slightly. Then the palm lay to rest below and he was pressing against her gently, feeling the beat of her heart. She could feel it now, too—how it matched his beat for beat. Strange how she couldn’t tell anymore where his ended and hers began. And all the while, she kept feeling this current. It now seemed to flow from him to her and back again, from hearts to chests to hands and arms, like an intoxicating bridge joining them together. She brought her free hand to his neck and felt the pulsing of his artery. He was so close now. Her hair brushed his face as she leaned across to kiss him on the neck where his pulse beckoned. She needed to be moving through his veins to feel alive again.

 

She was kissing his neck, her right hand still on his heart though he no longer held it there. His hand was in her hair, caressing the curls and touching her ear, the nape of her neck, her eyebrows, her cheeks. His other hand was still on her chest, trembling all the more; as the first hand explored, this one seemed frozen above her breast. She could feel him wanting to move, but maybe he wasn’t ready. Or maybe he was afraid. Gently, she pulled away from his neck and brought her hand over his frozen one. She watched his eyes carefully, so as not to push him further than he wanted to go, as she drew his hand downward, leaving his fingertips to rest on the rise of her breast and brought both her arms to his neck. She pulled herself closer to him and reached for his mouth with hers. His hand was coming to life now, no longer frozen, but tracing the mound of her breast with his palm, feeling its smoothness with his fingers. She felt him catch his breath as his thumb brushed her nipple. Like every other part of her, it was taut, welcoming his body and every touch of his hand.

 

Then they were moving toward the bed. She couldn’t tell who started it or led their steps; it seemed to be that same bond of electricity holding them together and drawing them along. As she crawled backward onto the bed, she couldn’t imagine ever wanting anyone the way she wanted Ron now.  

 

He was half standing, half kneeling above her as she lay back. But there was too much space between them now; she could hardly stand it. She sat up higher onto her arms, and drew her mouth up toward his. As he joined her kiss, he melted onto her and she felt the pressure of his body. Her torso rose to meet his and she felt his hands again, this time fondling both breasts as he began kissing her neck. Sound escaped her throat—a sigh, a moan, the growl of a wild animal perhaps. She wondered who she was. Ron looked at her face in surprise and she giggled. For a moment she thought he misunderstood her—did he think she was laughing at him?—but then he chuckled back. It was his first expression of sheer joy in days and it filled her with such elation that she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him to her, laughing and biting him gently on the lip. He laughed, too, and when she opened her eyes as she kissed him again, she saw that he was looking right at her, kissing her back with his eyes wide open and shining.

 

They lay there for a long while, mouths practically attached as Ron caressed Hermione’s breasts. She felt like they were flying, joined as one, impossible to separate. One bird, perhaps. Every time his fingers found one of her nipples again, her heart skipped a beat and then pounded all the more furiously. After a while, his hands found the bottom of her shirt and slipped beneath. The touch of his skin on her stomach sent a shiver through her; his fingers were so warm and the skin on his palms so smooth. He was drawing them up, in long, excited strokes, until he reached her bra. She knew he could feel her better through its sheer fabric, but wanted nothing between them now. Lifting herself up, she pulled her t-shirt over her head and let it fall from her hands. He sat back a bit, just looking at her. Suddenly she felt self-conscious, wondering if he thought her too forward or found something about her unappealing, but as he looked up to her eyes from her breasts, she saw that look again—the same one she’d seen on the stairs moments before and after their kiss, now days ago. His eyes were those of an adoring lover; she knew this with all her heart, even though she’d never quite known before what that would look like.

 

“You’re beautiful.”

 

She blushed and giggled a bit as she dropped her eyes from his. When she looked back up, he was there looking at her, her adoring lover, confirming all her hopes. He still seemed so serious, but there was joy in his face, too, and she loved seeing it there again. It seemed so long since they had been able to enjoy anything.

 

She lifted herself up again and, as he watched with that enchanted look on his face, she unhooked her bra from the back and slipped the straps slowly down from her shoulders, looking at him frequently to be sure she hadn’t lost him or gone too far. But no, the look was still there—in fact, Ron seemed to be in suspended animation, leaning back a bit from her, his arms supporting himself on the bed, with nothing but his eyes moving, from one shoulder to the other, down her arms as the straps slipped further, back to her breasts as the fabric slid down to reveal them to him completely. She let the bra fall to the side and waited, barely breathing. He seemed frozen again for a moment before he looked back in her eyes with longing and dropped his head to her chest, cupping one bare breast with his hand and brushing his thumb along the nipple as he slipped his other hand behind her back and began kissing her other breast. Periodically, as he tasted her skin, his cheek brushed against her nipple; he finally brought his mouth to it, kissing it lightly and then brushing it with his tongue. Now both his arms slipped behind her back and held her tightly (she hadn’t known anyone could hold her this close) and his mouth moved to her other breast, kissing it all over, tasting her skin with his tongue, lingering above her nipple before licking it, too. She could barely breathe for wanting him.

 

As he pulled himself up to look at her again, her hands wandered down to find his shirt hem, and she slipped it up and over his head. His chest was pale and smooth. Hermione was surprised at the definition of his muscles and the way they contracted with each exhalation while his chest heaved in time to his panting breath. But her hands were immediately drawn to his biceps, which she traced with her fingertips and squeezed firmly. His arms were strong, filling her with desire and a sense of safety.

 

His hands had resumed, too, stroking her neck, her arms, the curve of her hips, and the roundness of her breasts. Her hands were moving across his chest, down his stomach, and at the same moment, they each landed at the button of the other’s jeans. He caught her eye with a mischievous smile and she laughed.

 

Breathlessly he asked, “Is this alright with you?”

 

“Oh, yes,” she breathed quietly, “but what’s say we make it easier?”

 

She prodded him to his feet and stood in front of him, slowly undoing the button of her jeans and pulling down the zipper. Her hands rested at the waistband as she paused and looked up at him. He got the clue and followed suit. Then, at the same moment, they slipped their jeans down. Hermione gingerly stepped out of hers as Ron threw his off to the side with his foot.

 

They were standing an arm’s width apart, looking at each other. Neither one wore anything special for the occasion—they hadn’t even known there would _be_ an occasion—but Hermione suddenly felt very sexy in her simple white knickers. Ron’s pants had probably once been white, but were a bit grey with time and use; perhaps they were hand-me-downs, too. She thought he was suddenly blushing from embarrassment, but maybe it was just the flush of the moment catching up with him. Of course, the state of his pants didn’t matter to her one bit. They fit him tightly so she could see the outline of his muscles on the side of his buttocks and hips; more to the point, she could see very well how excited he was for her. She reached out to touch him, and felt that electrical current pulling at her again. As she slipped her hand slowly along the taut mound of fabric, she heard his sharp intake of breath and felt his hands grabbing at her hips and the tips of his thumbs pulling down the top of her knickers just a bit.

 

But then he pulled away again, saying, “Shite, Hermione! We can’t do this now!”

 

She felt a confusion of emotion—embarrassment most of all. She’d gone too far too fast. She’d been too aggressive and scared him off. How could she have been so insensitive? She stood in front of him, arms at her sides, looking down at the floor and wishing it would swallow her up. He seemed to sense her confusion, because he took a step toward her and put his hands on her shoulders rather awkwardly. “You know I want to, right? But I…I’m not prepared.”

 

She looked up at him blankly.

 

He tried again. “Um, I don’t have a, you know, a… a raincoat.”

 

Now she got it. “Oh, that! I hadn’t even thought of it. Oh….” Then she remembered something and ran out the door, saying, “Hold on. Don’t go away!”

 

“Not bleedin’ likely,” he called after her.

 

Like a madwoman, she was rummaging through drawers in her parents’ room. She had to find one quickly, before Ron changed his mind again. As soon as she had it, she was back in no time. He was standing right where she’d left him, as though immobilized. She raised the condom package in her hand triumphantly.

 

“Where’d that come from?” he asked, shocked.

 

“My parents’ room,” she said as an unpleasant image shot into her head. “But I really don’t want to think about that. Anyway, here it is. I’m good under pressure, eh?”

 

“You’re good anytime.” He embraced and kissed her again, and now she felt how hard he was. She had the sensation of that same electrical current now running between her legs and across her hips. She shifted her weight moments later and could feel moisture in her knickers.

 

The electricity was everywhere now as they were entwined around each other. Her stomach met his and she could feel those tight muscles. Her breasts were pinned by his chest and her nipples hardened even more. She knew he felt it, too, for that electricity was coming back through his chest and he was rubbing against her. His arms were wrapped around her back and hips, caressing her up and down. Both his hands slipped underneath the back waistband of her knickers and felt the smooth skin of her hips and arse. She let out a little moan and stepped back, allowing him to slide his hands around to her hips and lower the knickers slowly. As he did, he knelt before her as though worshipping a goddess; she loved feeling his eyes on her as she stepped out of them. His hands slid gently up the sides of her legs until they were resting on her hips. He moved toward her and rested the side of his face on her stomach. He was so still that for a moment she wondered if he had changed his mind. But no, his hand was sliding from her hip to touch her pubic hair. He stroked it, twirled it around his fingers, and she could feel the moisture between her legs swell. He sat back on his heels a moment, looking at her, still fingering the hair, and then leaned forward to kiss it, sliding his hand straight between her legs as he did so. She gasped, and as he fondled her slit his finger began to wander up, feeling the wetness between her legs and eventually sliding into her. She heard him murmuring her name as she grabbed his hair with her hands and felt her torso tighten to his touch. His other hand had slid up her side and now held her back tightly; her knees were so weak it was the only thing keeping her standing.

 

It was all too much. She _was_ going to explode. They would explode together and only pieces of them would be left. “Ron,” she whispered breathlessly, “make love to me, right now. I can’t wait any longer.”

 

He was breathless, too, as he rocked back on his heels and sat her on the bed in front of him. He stood and slipped his pants down his legs. There he was, naked in front of her, his penis erect and enormous, glistening at the tip and surrounded by curly light ginger hair at the base. She ripped open the condom package and handed it to him as quickly as she could, but before he could slip it on, she had to feel him for herself. She touched him and traced the rib of a vein running the length of his cock, from the hair to the head. The skin was strange to her touch, warm and cool at the same time, tight and silky.

 

“Hermione, you’ll have to stop that,” he murmured, his head lolling backward before he focused again on unrolling the condom onto himself.

 

She was lying back on the bed now and knew enough to spread her legs a bit. His hands moved up her thighs and he paused for a moment, looking at her hair and the folds of wet pink skin beneath. Then he was kneeling over her with hands on either side of her and looking into her eyes. That look again! She never knew what to expect when she saw it.

 

“Hermione, you do know I love you, yeah?”

 

“I know it. I love you, too, Ron. I can’t remember what it was like not to.”

 

With his hand he was guiding his penis into her. She felt her clit quiver and heat up as he made contact and began sliding inside her. He lowered the weight of his body onto hers and began kissing her shoulders, her neck, her hair, her cheeks, her lips; he seemed to be everywhere around and in her. As he went deeper, she felt a sharp stab and gasped with pain. He froze where he was and pushed himself up to look at her.

 

“Are you alright?” he said, alarmed. “Did I hurt you?”

 

“I guess a little.” He started to pull out, but Hermione stopped him. “No! Stay! Just slow down, alright?” He looked at her for a moment, apparently unsure whether he should really continue. “Ronald, please, I need you.”

 

So keeping his eyes glued to hers, he continued slowly going deeper, easing in. She was tight around him, but the pain had gone now. He filled her completely and was soon all the way inside her. She let out a low, laughing breath, just feeling the pleasure of him and he kissed her mouth suddenly, teasing her with his tongue as he began rocking his hips back and forth. It was slow at first, steady and sensuous, but soon he was picking up speed. She could feel him sliding in, then almost out, reaching the depths of her before pulling away again, sending currents throughout her body to the nerves all over her skin. She wanted to be part of him, to be joined with him forever, feeling him in her, with her, as they moved to their own rhythm. Her legs were bent by his sides, pushing her hips up toward him. Next thing she knew, she had wrapped them around his back and was squeezing his cock from inside, needing to feel all of him.

 

“Bloody hell… Hermione….”

 

Sounds were again escaping from her throat, but no real words. For once, there were no words in her head. There was nothing but this—the two of them, locked together, one being—torsos, limbs, hearts, electrical cords binding them all.

 

She could feel the sweat on their chests, bellies, legs, hips. He was gripping her even tighter now and his mouth was back on hers. She was caressing his arms and back; every now and then at his thrust she would press her fingernails into a shoulder blade, a rib, a muscle. His arms felt hard and strong now as he held himself above her; she could feel the movement of each sinew when she touched him. Every part of him was taut, too.

 

They were moving faster, her legs pulling him closer, her hips stretching to meet his, his bum contracting beneath her hands as she grabbed it hard. It was unbearable now. She was almost crawling out of her skin with the feel of him. They couldn’t go on this way: they _would_ explode. Here, together. In the bed where she’d dreamed so often of him holding her. Of course she had never quite dreamed of _this._ She couldn’t have imagined how he would drive her out of her head, out of her skin, exploding with her into oblivion.

 

She moaned faster and faster, as he cried out in short crescendos. He was throbbing inside her now, not just between her legs, but everywhere She felt him in every part of herself, throbbing and crying out. Or had she entered him? Been sucked in by the electricity of his heartbeat? There was no space between them now, and then it happened: they _did_ explode. She was being shot through him. There were colors behind her eyelids and she was overcome by violent shaking as she cried out louder and louder. Her cries were his. His arms were her back, his hips her legs. She felt herself let go inside, but everything got tighter anyway until they were spiraling out of control. In one convulsion, they rolled over from sheer momentum. A last great spasm shot through her and she collapsed onto his chest and belly as his arms fell limply to his sides.

 

 

*********

Time passed—how much, she couldn’t say. Maybe a fraction of a second, maybe several hours. She wasn’t sure where she was or even who she was. Lying on his chest, she felt that heartbeat—still strong and insistent—and the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, quickly and heavily, in and out.

 

“Merlin’s beard,” he gasped. “Who knew _that_ was in there, Hermione?” She lifted her eyes to see him smiling down at her, one arm now tucked under his head. “Didn’t look _that_ up in the library, did you?”

 

She shook her head and felt her breath still there--like Ron’s, coming heavy and hard. “I didn’t know that was there, either. I don’t think it was there without you.” His hands stroked her hair, wiping the sweat from her brow as she blurted out, “Ronald Weasley, I love you. It feels so good to say that. Like there is a future, after all.”

 

She was looking into his eyes as they changed. The adoring lover was still there, but he was sad now, too. She thought a tear slipped down the side of his face, but couldn’t be sure. He was still touching her, though, and still inside her; he hadn’t pulled away this time.

 

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to remind you. Especially right now.” She couldn’t keep looking at his eyes, seeing the sadness in them, so she lay down across his chest, her face nestled by his neck. She was holding on in every way she could; she didn’t want to lose the weight of their lovemaking… not yet.

 

“It’s alright.” After another moment, he chuckled quietly. “I guess I can hold on for a future if I have more of _that_ to look forward to.” He sighed. “Everything is so different now. Most of it sucks. But you and me is different, too… I mean us, together, right? That’s brilliant. I screwed up so much and thought I’d never make it up and get with you, but it’s like all this crap made us two clearer, you know?”

 

“Yes. We see what’s important now.”

 

“Well, yeah, but it’s also like… like I’d be drowning without you. I’d just be drowning in all the sadness. I keep thinking about the Malfoy’s and hearing you up there screaming, thinking you were dying. I’ve never felt that awful in my life. Well, I hadn’t until Fred died. But I might’ve lost you, too, Hermione, and I don’t know what I’d do now if I had. There’d be Fred’s funeral tomorrow and all those other people to bury, and then what? I mean, I still don’t know what comes after that, but you’re here so there’s something.”

 

Now tears were slipping from her eyes, falling sideways onto the bed. She knew what this year had cost them both, but to hear him say that he needed her as much as she knew she needed him was like a balm, soothing the pain of all that loss. He was hers; she felt confident of that now. And of course, she’d known for years that she was his. She hadn’t always liked it—he could be so exasperating sometimes!—but she was his, for better or worse.

 

She was quiet and still for so long, lost in her thoughts and feeling safe in his arms, that he finally asked, “You’re not asleep there, are you?”

 

“No,” she laughed, “but I am starting to feel a bit cold.” It had just hit her, the spring chill in the room.There was no heat in the unoccupied house.

 

“Yeah, me, too.” He moved out from under her, slipping out of her as he did so. She sighed rather sadly. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly. He reached for a tissue in which to wrap the spent condom before bending to pick up his pants.

 

“Oh, do we have to get dressed now?” she asked quietly. “Can’t we just get under the covers for a bit?” She wasn’t ready to let go yet; she wanted to savor this feeling, hold on to it forever.

 

“I’d like to,” he said, pulling on his pants and reaching for his jeans. Turning to face her, he must’ve seen the disappointment in her eyes, for he knelt above her again—with that look!—and stroked her arm before lying down next to her and holding her sweetly. “I really would,” he said sadly, kissing her forehead, “you know I would. But I reckon Mum’ll wonder where we are and she’ll want help getting ready for tomorrow. Being a bleeding slavedriver may be the only thing that keeps her from going barmy. And I’m kind of worried about George. He hasn’t said much. He’s never been this quiet.”

 

“Well, I’m sure no one quite knows what this is like for him,” Hermione said, rising from the bed as she reached for her bra and knickers.

 

Sorrow was back in the forefront for now. The heat from their lovemaking had cooled, but she knew there would be more to come. Perhaps not soon, but she could wait. Now that she knew there was a future for them, she could hold on as long as Ron needed. They would be together again like this. Maybe even for the rest of their lives.

 

 


End file.
